Life Gets In The Way Of Progress
by Krin
Summary: Life screws everything up. Read Devi's diary for her latest agonizing adventures. Sort of continuation of "Living Canvas." R for language


**I _really_ need to be writing other stories now, but this one wouldn't leave me alone. This is a sort of continuation of "Living Canvas." Not exactly a sequel, but this story makes more sense if you've read that story.**

**Disclaimer: All herein that does not belong to me belongs to Jhonen Vasquez, that poor, poor man. All herein that does belong to me belongs to me. If you are confused as to what is mine and what is not, email me and I will use happy fun short words to make it crystal clear.**

**Please enjoy!**

12:20am

You know that headache you get when you don't sleep enough?

I have one right now...

Turns out my apartment was okay, but the rest of the building didn't quite make it when that 747 crashed. And damn, it still smells like Fat Lady. You can hear the ghostly oozing of her melted cellulite deposits running down the walls at night.

Which brings us to Oilie. Pronounced "oil-ly."

They say not to room with your friends. Cuz you, ya know, start to hate them.

But I'd take Tenna and that damn squeaker toy over this any day...

Oilie is my new roommate.

Why? Why, Devi? Why did you take up the evil offer?

Half the tenants lost their rooms in the crash. So the landlord says, "anyone who takes in one of the old tenants gets a third off the monthly rent." Just until he can rake in the insurance money and clean up this shit hole, then everyone goes back to their old apartments. Sounded really great at the time. Especially since I had just left my job. What with screaming/insulting/verbally harassing that bastard from Nerve. And then quitting.

Well, when you get down to it, I think I was technically fired before I quit. But that doesn't matter. This is what matters:

Thanks to the courts and the 747 Crash Victim's Family Society, the insurance processing will take another eighty thousand years.

And I... am stuck... with Oilie...

I _told_ her I was a source of inexplicable supernatural phenomena. I told her the things that go bump in the night in these rooms most likely started life in my own head. Then crawled out. And started gnawing through the walls and connecting the plumbing to the electricity so that every time you shower the toaster burns your toast and every time someone leaves a message on the answering machine the sink clogs. And no matter how much Drain-O you pour down there, the clog doesn't leave until you stick your hand into that disgusting pipe and pull out the hugest hairball you've ever seen.

Which, coincidentally, is bright pink.

Which, coincidentally, is the color of Oilie's hair.

And, when you ask her what she was doing hacking her hairballs into the sink, instead of in the conveniently placed garbage can right under it, she shuts her eyes in a pathetic attempt to mimic that "cute look" her fuckin' favorite anime characters do. Which I hate.

Which doesn't address the initial point. I told her I'm a freak of nature, and instead of instilling in her some sort of avoidance behavior, she tossed her happy atomic pink hair back and said, "yay! I can't wait to see all your paintings and play with your paints and move that statue over there. Because it looks stupid under the window like that."

So I told her not to touch my stuff. Repeatedly.

Coming home and finding your panties and bras all over the floor covered in liquor, paint, and some sort of cement-like adhesive is _not_ cool.

I think the conversation went something like this:

Me: WHAT THE FUCK?!

Retard: Duhhhhhh... hey Devi. Me and Asswipe decided to delve into the recesses of your dresser drawers in the midst of our passionate exchange.

Only replace "Asswipe" with "Cryptopher" (_yes. Cryptopher. Scuse me while I go kill him before he has a chance to_). And replace all the intelligent words longer than four letters (like "delve" and "passionate") with shorter words (like "dig" and "whoot ha ha FUCKIN DOOP!").

I wish I could express in words how much I hate when she says, "FUCKIN DOOP!" But it is not possible. So I take this nice little electronic diary Tenna gave me and bang it against my forehead until the noise of Oilie's tinny, falsetto voice stops grating against the sound-raped regions of my brainmatter. Anyway. Back to the conversation.

Me: At what fucking point was my innocent paint needed for this?!

Retard: It was necessary to visualize the expression of our completely and utterly pointless lust for each other.

1:29am

I just realized how incredibly stupid all of this is. I'm going to bed now.

1:57am

I can't sleep because Oilie is playing her 100 Recycled Pop Shit at the highest volume setting possible. My fucking windows are vibrating in their sills. Asbestos is raining down into my eyeballs with furious velocity.

2:04am

Where's that damn pepper spray?? I know I had some under the bed! I bought a six-pack of the stuff a while ago. Because... well, I won't get into why.

2:32am

I wish that painting of a giant alien space monster fetus with tentacles and a death ray gun would come to life and chew Oilie's face off. But it won't. It never had a chance. She wrote her grocery list on its canvas and sucked away its magical powers with words like "soy enriched" and "FUCKIN DOOP!"

2:46am

I _almost_ wish Sickness would walk her little knife feet all over Oilie's back.

3:07am

Fucking... hell.

Tenna just came up. Oilie didn't even answer the door. You know, when the doorbell rings, I'd assume whoever is closest to the door would open it. Seeing as how I'm in my bedroom, and Oilie's polluting what used to be my art room, she's closer. But she doesn't like Tenna. So I got the door, grungy Captain Bucky O Hare pajamas and everything.

Tenna's happy I'm using the diary. She's mad I never sent a thank you note. She said tomorrow we'll go to the park and feed the fishes steroids so that someday they'll be big fishies and we can throw Oilie into the pond and they'll eat her up.

I think Tenna is crazy. But I'm not sure. It's 3:09am and I haven't slept in about three days. So who am I to say what's crazy and what's not?

On her way out, Tenna flicked Oilie off. Oilie didn't notice. She was busy picking her nose with her Hello Kitty Army Knife knockoff.

My only salvation is that tomorrow Oilie's visiting Asswipe at his shit hole of a shitty apartment. I'm gonna seize this opportunity like an orphan does his phony penicillin handout from the state. I WILL PAINT!

I need to finish my latest painting. It was at The Live Art Museum, but I had to take everything down. The reason is purely precautionary.

Precautionary, my ass. Young artist fuckin' killed in her own public display cubical? I'm getting the fuck out of there.

I hate how every single entry I put in this diary ends up being about him.

I want to cry. But I'm saving all those tears. I'm rolling them up into one hate-filled ball. If that bastard ever gets _near_ me I'll...

I'll...

Fuck!

That's it. I'm going into the kitchen, getting two hot dog buns, and jamming them into my ears. If I don't get any sleep tonight, I'll die. And then I'll come back as a poltergeist and beat the snotty living shit out of Oilie.

Ah... nothing to lull oneself to sleep like the sweet sweet promise of revenge.

Thanks! Please review. Even if you didn't like it. Especially if you didn't like it. You gotta tell me what's wrong with it.


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